Have you ever reached a point where you're so broken, you can't even see how to start putting yourself back together?
Some might call it "despair." Others throw around the trendy word "burnout"—because, hey, who doesn’t love a good buzzword to keep the conversation flowing? But for me? It was hope. I lost it. And once it was gone, it was like trying to find that one sock the laundry definitely ate. It’s just... gone.
You are probably thinking… what does he know about “despair?”
Well, I hate to compare myself to a sock lost in the laundry, but... I was basically that sock. I slipped into a black hole. Not the empty kind, though. No, this one was packed with all sorts of self-medicating behaviors. And when I finally crawled out, I barely recognized the person staring back at me—just a shell of who I used to be.
But here's the thing: while I was drowning in that darkness, I learned a few things about the process. Things that, frankly, could be a wake-up call for anyone still trying to find the answers at the bottom of a bottle, or numbing it all with drugs.
When I joined the fire department as a junior member at sixteen, no one told me what it would truly cost. They handed me some outdated bunker gear and a huge-ass box pager, and I was ready to serve. But what they forgot to mention was that the job didn’t just take time—it took pieces of me. Sure, I might sound dramatic, but there was this unspoken trade: each time I rushed to help someone, I felt like I was giving up a little bit of my soul in return. Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time, but after two decades, my soul became blackened by it.
Why, so?
As I moved from one call to the next, first as a firefighter and then as a police officer, I thought I was getting stronger. But what I didn’t realize was that with each traumatic event, each life lost (and there were many), and every moment of devastation I witnessed, a small part of me was quietly absorbing the pain. Over time, those pieces of me started to fade. I kept going, pushing through, but I wasn’t the same. I felt like I was slowly losing myself—one call, one tragedy at a time.
For years, I took pride in my mental strength. I thought of myself as someone who could weather any storm, someone who could face adversity head-on and always stand firm. But what I didn’t realize was that beneath that surface, my foundation wasn’t as solid as I had convinced myself it was. At first, it was just small cracks—barely noticeable, easy to overlook. I told myself they were nothing, that they’d heal with time. But those cracks kept spreading. They deepened, widened, and before long, pieces of that once-solid foundation started to break away.
And I didn’t stop to fix it. I didn’t stop to ask for help. I kept going, pushing through, thinking I could manage it on my own. But eventually, the weight of it all—every tragedy, every moment of loss, every unprocessed pain—became too much. The parts of me that had once been unshakable were gone, and all that was left was a shell of the person I used to be. The collapse wasn’t sudden, but when it came, it was complete.
So, what do you do when you are broken? How do you keep going?
It wasn’t easy. In fact, some days, I think I’d have rather gone through a colonoscopy with a 10-foot-long section of LDH. Okay, maybe that’s a bit much, but you get the idea. For years, I suffered in silence. Those around me just thought I was being moody, or overtired from the long hours. But the truth? The hurt I was carrying ran so deep, I didn’t even know where to start to make it stop.
I was torn. On the outside, I felt this unshakable duty to keep serving, to keep doing my best to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. I thought that was enough. But inside, I was a shadow of the person I used to be. It was like my soul had been running on empty for so long that the light within me finally flickered out. What remained wasn’t me anymore—it was just a hollow darkness.
Much like a lone sock lost at the bottom of a laundry, I was lost in the depths of a dark abyss—waiting, unsure, if anyone would ever find me again.
Finding hope when you feel like you have none can feel like an impossible task. But it’s important to remember that hope isn’t always something you “find” in a moment—it’s something that can be cultivated, even in the darkest of times.
My first step out of the darkness was acknowledging I had a problem. A big one. It wasn’t easy to admit to myself—especially when I’d spent so much time convincing myself I was fine. But the moment I finally said it out loud, something shifted inside me. My soul flickered, just for a second, and I felt a warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t much, just a brief spark, but it was enough. At that moment, I realized the key to getting out of the darkness wasn’t some grand solution. It was simply talking about it.
Therapy helped, of course. But it wasn’t until I started sharing my struggles with the people around me—family, friends, and even strangers—that it really began to take on a life of its own. Every conversation, every word spoken, chipped away at the isolation and shame I’d been carrying. And with each conversation, I felt that flicker grow just a little brighter. It wasn’t an instant fix, but it was the beginning of something important: I was no longer alone in my pain. And that made all the difference.
The first time I stood in front of a group of strangers and shared my story, I could barely hold back my emotions. For so long, I’d kept the pain buried, hidden behind a mask. But at that moment, I let it all out. I acknowledged the hurt, the rawness, and the struggle it had caused me. And something shifted. I wasn’t hiding anymore. I wasn’t pretending to be something I wasn’t. I was simply human, talking to other humans about real, unfiltered emotions.
Those words, shared from the heart, became the bridge that helped me begin to process my way out of the darkness. Each moment of vulnerability, each raw emotion spoken aloud, chipped away at the isolation and fear that had kept me trapped. And in that space, I found healing. It wasn’t easy, but it was real. And it was the beginning of something far more powerful than I had ever imagined: the strength to be truly seen, and the courage to keep moving forward.
Although my healing may take a lifetime, I hope that through my words and my story, those who are struggling can catch even a small glimmer of hope. If my journey—no matter how long it takes—can offer someone the belief that healing is possible, that there’s light even in the darkest moments, then every step I take will have been worth it.
When I first signed up to be a firefighter at sixteen, all I wanted was to help people. After more than twenty-six years of answering the call, facing challenges, and enduring the toll this work takes, that desire hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s grown stronger. I still want to help—only now, it’s not just the people we serve, but my fellow first responders. I want to help them navigate the emotional rollercoaster of putting their lives on the line and support them through the highs and lows of a job that asks so much of our souls.
One thing I’ve learned is that darkness hates light. No matter how deep or overwhelming it may seem, the smallest spark of hope, the tiniest bit of light, can push it back. And the more we share that light—whether through our words, our actions, or our support for one another—the more the darkness begins to fade.
Stay safe out there, and remember—keeping an eye on each other is the only way we’re all getting home in one piece!
Stay safe, and as always, watch out for each other! -Dr. M
